


Still I Look to Find a Reason

by sunken_standard



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Barebacking, Codependency, Dark, Dub-con undertones, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Sexual Content, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mention of breathplay, Misogyny, Not Series 2 Compliant, Unhealthy Relationships, dark!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-22
Updated: 2012-07-22
Packaged: 2017-11-10 11:53:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/465975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunken_standard/pseuds/sunken_standard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knows Sherlock loves him. Really.  (Written before Series 2)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still I Look to Find a Reason

**Author's Note:**

  * For [misanthropyray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropyray/gifts).



> Originally posted on my LiveJournal on December 31st 2011 (not Series 2 compliant).
> 
> Written for misanthropyray for the help_japan auction; intended as a follow-up to [The Red Right Hand](http://archiveofourown.org/works/464193).
> 
> This isn't a happy fic, please heed the tags.

  
  
"I love you," Sherlock says.  
  
John's breath catches, just like it does every time he hears it. He ignores the split second before Sherlock opens his mouth, when the look of calculation sharpens his eyes before they go soft and warm. It's easier to dismiss it as a trick of the light or just Sherlock's alien facial structure.  
  
It's his trust issues again. He knows he has trust issues (thank you very much for stating the obvious, Ella). You don't grow up in a house with a raging drunk and her enabler without ending up being a bit wary of people's motivations.  
  
John finds himself smiling against Sherlock's lips, even as he wonders what stupid or terrible thing Sherlock's done or is planning on doing.  
  
People lie all the time. Big lies, white lies, untruths, lies of omission. Everyone does it. John's done it a million times (I'm seeing someone; Harry broke it; everything's fine), though he's not proud of it. All the same, he understands the various reasons people have for lying. The long and short of it -- they do it to protect themselves.  
  
Sherlock doesn't. The only time he can be bothered to lie is to get a result. John likes to think that he only does it in the interest of the greater good, to save a life or bring justice to those who deserve it. To John, Sherlock resides in the kind of grey moral area where epic heroes dwell.  
  
Sherlock doesn't lie to the people who are important to him in his life.  
  
 _Lestrade wouldn't put up with it and Mycroft's too clever_ , the cynical little voice in the back of his head tells him.  
  
Sherlock wouldn't do that to him.  
  
The kiss turns from a happy expression of emotion to something a bit more heated. Things haven't been great between them for the last few months. Sherlock has been a bit more snappish than usual, more demanding, less inclined to cede an argument, that sort of thing. John's seen Sherlock's eyes drift away during conversations. Not focussing on other men (or women), specifically, just... away from _him_. They still have sex fairly regularly, but sometimes it's... disconnected. Habit. Not all the time, and John reasons that it happens in all relationships. Sherlock's never been especially tender, but his displays of physical affection have lessened. It's been weeks since Sherlock stayed the night in John's bed.  
  
He wonders if he's done something wrong.  
  
But Sherlock is taking his time, practically worshipping John's body with his lips and teeth and tongue, hitting all the spots that make John's knees weak. If John were a more romantic person, he'd call what Sherlock was doing making love.  
  
"Do you trust me?" Sherlock rumbles against his thigh.  
  
 _I want to_ , John thinks.  
  
It's one of Sherlock's bedroom quirks, John supposes. He asks John that every time he wants to try something new. John always responds enthusiastically to hide his discomfort with the question, even if he's not feeling particularly adventurous. Sherlock seems to get off on it though, and John is happy when Sherlock's happy.  
  
John wonders what Sherlock wants tonight. His lead-up is usually only this thorough when he has something that John might not like in mind. John hopes it's not breathplay again.  
  
The first time Sherlock asked John to choke him, John thought it was a joke until Sherlock put John's hands around his neck. Between his knowledge of human anatomy and his military training, John was probably more qualified than most to make the act safe, but he was terrified. What if he _liked_ it? What if he couldn't stop?  
  
He did it anyway, because Sherlock was insistent. There were a few false starts before he could will himself to tighten his grasp enough to be effective and keep it that way. Sherlock was very patient about the whole thing, even after John's erection had flagged and he'd had to pull out.  
  
Sherlock mouths over his balls, using just a hint of teeth. John pulls back slightly, even though he knows Sherlock would never intentionally do anything to hurt him. Sometimes Sherlock is a little over-enthusiastic and gets a bit bitey, which is fine, but not in the general vicinity of John's tackle, thanks.  
  
John feels guilty for not fully trusting Sherlock, especially when he knows that Sherlock trusts him more than anyone else in the world. Only John gets to see him when he's vulnerable (rare as that is, but he's not made of stone); John is the one to nurse him through a craving or a comedown (because "clean" is always a relative term for an addict); John is the one who gets to watch him sleep.  
  
Sherlock pushes John's knees farther apart, causing a slight twinge in his right leg. He takes his time, brushing the pad of his thumb over John's hole, then following with his mouth. John never would have thought he'd enjoy the act so much. It took some time getting used to the idea of his arse as a source of pleasure but, to John's eternal gratitude, Sherlock was persistent.  
  
Even as John relaxes into Sherlock's mouth, he feels his leg starting to tighten up. As much as he loves the sensation of Sherlock's tongue working him open, he won't be able to go on much longer without a cramp.  
  
His leg has been playing up more lately. He's sure Sherlock's noticed, but neither of them have mentioned it. There haven't been many cases, and the ones Sherlock did have hadn't required much legwork. Oddly, Sherlock's been in relatively good spirits. John would like to think it's his love for Sherlock keeping the man afloat, but he's aware that that's probably not the case.  
  
John doesn't think Sherlock's been cheating. God knows if he was, he'd know how to hide the evidence. He wouldn't bother with that though, even to spare John's feelings.  
  
Sherlock's mouth is suddenly gone, replaced by two long, thin fingers. There's a slight burn, too much too soon and too dry, but John doesn't think Sherlock is trying to cause him pain. He's just enthusiastic. John breathes through the discomfort, knowing it will pass soon enough. Sherlock's fingers crook, rubbing John's prostate. John can't help the involuntary jerk of his hips -- he knows what's coming every time, but that doesn't dull the sharp, too-much-not-enough sensation.  
  
Sherlock scissors his fingers, perfunctory, and John can tell he's growing impatient. Sometimes the patience Sherlock displays amazes him. John had been reluctant at first to try new things as he'd gradually come to terms with this aspect of his sexuality.  
  
It wasn't easy, not at first. John always fancied himself a bit of a bohemian, an open-minded heterosexual when it came to sex and sensuality. He spent a good part of his youth experimenting, trying out new things with women, but he'd drawn a line at anything involving his own arse. It might have been wrong to compartmentalize that part of human sexuality, but years of conditioning and countless other factors had shaped his opinions.  
  
It was complicated. Rationally, he'd known gay men were just as manly as straight ones. Orientation and gender were separate entities. But he'd already been the "woman" in their relationship on so many fronts - he did the cooking and the cleaning and was the caregiver, while Sherlock was the breadwinner and the one to never back down first in a row - that he'd started to feel like less of a man.  
  
He got used to the idea of hands and mouths and even being the penetrating partner fairly quickly. It was easy, really, since it wasn't much different than with a woman. Still, he'd resisted every time Sherlock tried to initiate any kind of anal stimulation with him. He hadn't wanted to come with two fingers buried in his arse. He hadn't wanted to like it. He'd felt he had to hold on to some shred of his masculine identity.  
  
Sherlock was persistent though, and John had come to terms (more or less) with the fact that he really did enjoy the physical sensation.  
  
Regardless, John hates himself just a little on principle for always giving in to Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock removes his fingers and pulls away. John watches as he reaches for the bottle of lube on the bedside table. He turns onto his right side, tucking one arm under his head and curling the other into his chest. It's the most comfortable position for him, especially when his leg is bothering him. He hears Sherlock pop the cap on the lube, then the unmistakable sound of Sherlock slicking himself.  
  
The bed shifts as Sherlock settles behind him. Sherlock runs a hand over John's side and down his thigh, dropping a kiss to his shoulder. Sherlock's hand moves away, and John feels the firm brush of the head of Sherlock's cock against his arsehole. John realizes he didn't hear the crinkle of a condom wrapper and he turns his head while pulling his hips away.  
  
"Sherlock? Aren't you forgetting something?"  
  
Sherlock's expression morphs from focussed and intent to annoyed. "No," he answers simply.  
  
"We haven't talked about this," John hedges.  
  
Then again, they'd never talked about sex, not after that first night. They never used condoms for oral sex, but really, who did? John knew it was stupid and highly irresponsible, but he never really worried. The transmission rates of HIV from oral sex were low and, even though John knew Sherlock had engaged in almost every high-risk behaviour possible, John is sure that Sherlock would have known if he had some kind of disease. And, well, truth be told, the danger aspect was sort of thrilling.  
  
"John. You were discharged from the army with a clean bill of health, including a full blood panel for STIs. You haven't engaged in sex with anyone but me since then, and I can assure you I'm clean. It's not as though you can get pregnant. Do you trust me?"  
  
And there it was again, that magic phrase. John doesn't know why he feels compelled to prove to Sherlock that he _does_ trust him, implicitly. It's not as though not having faith in everything the man does is some kind of betrayal.  
  
It feels like it, though.  
  
John can and does question every other aspect of Sherlock's behaviour - especially his moral judgements - quite frequently. Inevitably, John always cedes his moral high-ground in the face of Sherlock's cold rationality to keep the peace. It isn't the right thing to do, or the brave thing, but he can't argue that Sherlock gets results.  
  
It's different in their personal relationship. John still doesn't know why, but Sherlock seems so young and insecure at times. It might be an act just to prey on John's natural instinct to care for those he loves, but even thinking that makes John feel disloyal to Sherlock.  
  
John is really the only person Sherlock has. He'd been chosen by this great man, the man he simply adored, to be his friend, his lover, his partner. Sherlock could have done a lot better than a broken, washed-up old army doctor, but he'd picked John. Questioning his motives seems like looking a gift horse in the mouth.  
  
John twists his head to look directly into Sherlock's eyes. "Yes," he says simply, twisting his free arm behind him to grip the back of Sherlock's neck and draw him into a kiss.  
  
Sherlock responds with renewed enthusiasm, grinding his erection into the cleft of John's arse as he wraps his hand (cool and still slick with lube) around John's cock, stroking firmly. John breaks the kiss when the angle of his neck becomes uncomfortable. Sherlock withdraws his hand and John settles back into position, drawing his top leg up. The head of Sherlock's cock nudges against the sensitive pucker of his arsehole and John wills himself to relax.  
  
Sherlock pushes into him slowly, pausing halfway to let John adjust. John breathes, then rocks his hips back to let Sherlock know he's ready for more. He feels Sherlock's forearm pressed up against the back of his thigh, and then it's gone and Sherlock's hand is gripping his hip and Sherlock's in as deep as he can go. He kisses John's neck and mouths at John's earlobe as he thrusts in smooth, short strokes.  
  
The angle isn't the best for Sherlock to hit his prostate; without any direct stimulation to his cock, John feels his erection start to flag. It was a long day at surgery, and apparently his body is reminding him of this now. It's slightly embarrassing, even if the doctor in John knows that it's perfectly normal and there's nothing wrong with him, but it still makes him feel old and disappointing. Sherlock's never had a problem with going soft, even after three days with no sleep and only a handful of Skittles and some coffee to keep him going.  
  
He'd see to himself, but one arm is tucked up under his head and the other he needs for balance in this position, so he'll just have to wait. That's fine, not important. Sherlock's usually good about making sure John gets off at some point, even if John would rather just go to sleep.  
  
Sherlock's hot, moist breath curls against John's ear as he tells him how good it feels, how tight he is, how much he loves him. Sherlock is rarely talkative during sex, and when he is, it's mostly done for John's benefit. John appreciates this. He obliges by clenching around Sherlock, moving with him to heighten the sensation. It's a bit uncomfortable and strange to do that still, but Sherlock seems to rather enjoy it.  
  
It's not as though he does everything Sherlock wants all the time, and it's not like he's obligated to do any of it. But, well, he kind of is; he feels bad when he withholds anything from the people he loves. It's more than just guilt or gratitude though. When he sees Sherlock happy, genuinely happy, he knows that he's the cause. He's the only one in the world who can make Sherlock light up like that; him, John Watson. It's pride and a little vanity, but he's entitled to it.  
  
John needs to be needed. Everyone does, he supposes. And maybe he lets Sherlock get away with too much, but when it comes down to it, Sherlock needs _him_. Not just the convenient in-house doctor/ cook/ maid/ valet/ lab rat, but John himself. John's voice of reason and inherent balance. Of course he lets himself be taken advantage of, but it's simply Sherlock's nature to do that. It isn't a malicious thing. John's willing to bet that no one ever said 'no' to Sherlock as a child, so he's never had to feel the powerlessness that comes with not having any other options but to accept 'no' as an answer. Harry is much the same, probably would be ten times worse if they'd grown up with more money than God like Sherlock had.  
  
Sherlock's hand drifts from John's hip to his cock and strokes him back to full hardness.  
  
"Mmm, yes, that's nice love," John sighs. It is. Even with his non-dominant hand Sherlock can do amazing things. Must be from playing the violin.  
  
"What have I told you about pet names?" Sherlock rumbles into the back of John's neck, his hand tightening just a bit too much to be comfortable.  
  
"Right, sorry love," John says cheekily. Sherlock's hand stills, then withdraws. He keeps the rhythm of his hips steady, apparently not that bothered by John's attempt at playfulness.  
  
If it were anyone else, John would make another remark, call him some absurdly silly pet name and have a laugh about it. He did that once with Sherlock and the sex had stopped right then and there. Sherlock just got up and left without a word and refused to speak or acknowledge him for the next two days. John wasn't able to bring himself to ask about the reaction, assuming the worst. After that, he slipped up and called Sherlock "love" again, cringing even as he realized he was saying it, but Sherlock didn't react. It was a bit of a mystery, really, as there was no rhyme or reason to what upset him sometimes.  
  
John sighs inwardly, knowing that Sherlock won't go back to giving him a handjob now, even if he's well and truly interested once again. Hopefully he won't just finish and leave John to see to himself. Again.  
  
It's a bit devious, but John pulls out all the stops. He moves his hips in exactly the way he knows Sherlock likes, even though it puts a bit of strain on his bad leg. If he shows more enthusiasm, Sherlock will be that much more inclined to reciprocate once he's finished. He shifts his weight so he can reach behind himself to thread his fingers through Sherlock's hair and tugs at it, just this side of rough.  
  
As predicted, Sherlock bucks against him and sinks his teeth into the back of John's neck. It hurts; it always hurts, but Sherlock doesn't seem to realize how hard he's biting. A few more strokes and a sharp exhalation later, Sherlock shudders and comes inside him. He takes a few breaths then pulls out too quickly. A surge of liquid follows and dribbles down the crease between John's thigh and buttock, which feels properly disgusting.  
  
Sherlock doesn't wait though, he manhandles John onto his back and kisses him. Sloppy, sucking, relaxed post-coital kisses, which are nice, but not what John wants when he's hard and aching. He tries to direct Sherlock's head lower with his hands in the man's hair, but then feels bad about how selfish he's being so he eases up.  
  
Sherlock does make his way lower, his pace slow and languid now that he's satiated. He kisses John's chest, then lazily tongues a nipple. John shies back just the slightest bit; his nipples are very sensitive and sometimes it's too sharp and intense and just a few light sucks have him going off like a teenager. It's embarrassing and unsatisfying, but Sherlock likes to do it to him anyway. He seems fascinated by it. John's too nice to really protest it, just tries his best to guide Sherlock away from his chest. It works about half the time.  
  
Luckily, tonight is one of those times, and Sherlock's mouth moves lower. John shivers as one sweat-damp curl brushes his belly. Sherlock's mouth and the trail of nips and licks and kisses is almost-but-not enough, and it's becoming frustrating because John knows that Sherlock knows this and is doing it to tease.  
  
John sometimes thinks Sherlock has serious control issues. He's never really explored any boundaries there since, in his experience, it's better not to know. Let sleeping dogs lie and all that. There were a few times John felt like he brushed up against one of those boundaries and he immediately shied away.  
  
Besides, it wasn't as though Sherlock micromanaged John's life. He made his desires known, loudly and sometimes a bit forcefully, but he's never outright forbidden John from doing anything. He has opinions about John's hobbies and his job and his friends, but he's never tried to make John give them up.  
  
John groans as Sherlock's mouth finally closes over the head of his cock. Sherlock insinuates his hand between John's slightly-parted thighs, first fondling his balls, then moving farther back. John's arsehole is still sensitive, but Sherlock keeps his touches light. He slides two fingers inside and finds John's prostate with practised ease.  
  
Sherlock knows how to play John's body like an instrument. Well, most of the time. John is guilty of overdoing a bit when it comes to his show of appreciation in the bedroom. Sherlock always exudes this air of well-hidden vulnerability, especially when it comes to sex. John knew he wasn't a blushing virgin when they first got together, but his actions had a kind of hesitant, are-you-sure-this-is-alright quality to them. John doesn't want to add to whatever made him like that in the first place, so even when it isn't spectacular he acts like it is. It isn't really a lie, just an exaggeration, and it's only to protect Sherlock's feelings.  
  
John gives in to his orgasm easily, too tired to try to draw out his pleasure.  
  
\----------------------  
  
They lie side-by-side, fingertips brushing fingertips. It isn't that John doesn't like a cuddle, just not immediately after sex. The rush of orgasm is too intense; he needs a minute to calm himself. He drifts in a sated, hazy half-consciousness until Sherlock's phone chimes a text from the bedside table. John reaches for the phone, as it's closer to him, but Sherlock reaches one long arm across his body to get it first. John notices the time on his alarm clock, 12:00 exactly.  
  
Funny, that; midnight on the dot. He shrugs to himself and settles back against the pillows as Sherlock reads the text and fires off a response. He'll bask in the afterglow for every second he possibly can before Sherlock has him up and running about.  
  
Another text follows in short order and Sherlock jackknifes himself over John and out of bed before he's even read the thing. He pecks John on the lips and is out the door and down the steps - still naked - to the main part of the flat before John can question it. John fishes his boxers off the floor and stumbles into them on his way to the bedroom door.  
  
Sherlock comes tromping back up the stairs and goes straight into the bathroom. He's pulled on a fresh pair of briefs, and John watches from the doorway as he jams toiletries into an overnight bag.  
  
"Sherlock?"  
  
Sherlock doesn't look at him, just continues packing. "It's nothing John, go back to bed. Just a minor case on the continent, should be gone for a day or two, no longer. Open and shut, I expect. Nothing to trouble yourself over."  
  
"Oh. Right. You, um, need any help, then?"  
  
"No, I don't think so, you may as well get a good night's rest." He grabs John by the shoulders and guides him out of the doorway toward the bedroom.  
  
"Not even help packing?"  
  
Sherlock waves him away. "No, don't need much. Just go back to bed, I'll be home before you know it." He kisses John again; a short, chaste goodbye; then spins around and thumps back down the steps.  
  
John calls after him, "Be careful, yeah?"  
  
Sherlock shouts something indistinct from the sitting room that John takes to be assent. John shuts off the hall light and goes back to bed. He hears the muffled slam of the front door before he falls asleep.  
  
\-----------------------------  
  
Four days later a letter arrives in the post. The handwriting on the envelope is unfamiliar; the postmark is from Meiringen, Switzerland.


End file.
